Chapter 6
Rain sheeted down outside the high windows that lined Professor Xavier's study. Remy had a sneaking suspicion that had more to do with Storm's mood than she would admit. He hated to do it to her, but. . .
"No," he said. The argument was getting old already.
The professor sighed. "I cannot claim that it would not be a violation of your privacy, but under the circumstances I would think--"
"No! No circumstances, Professor." Remy stared at the rain. He was afraid if he turned around, they would all be able to tell just how frightened he was.
"Remy--" Ororo began, but stopped when he did not look at her.
"We all got secrets, Cajun." Logan leaned back in his chair and watched him through slitted eyes. It was the first time he had spoken. "I don't much like havin' my mind sorted through, either, but the Prof's no snoop. You know that."
Oui, mon ami. I know dat, he thought. But that wasn't the point, and he didn't know how to explain what was. "I didn'… I won'… ever… do anyt'ing to hurt de X-men. Y' have t' believe dat." It was a last ditch plea.
"Actually, I do," Professor Xavier told him.
Remy half turned, surprised. "But--"
"But based on some things the Witness has said, I think you may know a great deal more about all of this than you realize. I am not interested in placing blame of any sort, Remy. I simply want to protect the X-men." The professor gazed steadily at him. There was no compromise in his voice, but Remy knew that he was trying to be reasonable. And for all the reasons not to, Remy found that he wanted to do what the professor asked.
"I'm sorry, Professor," he finally answered. "No. I-- I'll leave, if dat's what you want..." The words hurt more than Remy thought possible.
A murmur of shock ran through the assembled X-men. The professor opened his mouth to speak, but before he could, Psylocke stepped forward.
"Gambit, you're being unreasonable." She walked up behind him and stood with her arms crossed, clearly disapproving.
"You one t' talk, chere." He watched her dim reflection in the window. "You refused t' let de Professor scan y' mind when Revanche showed up."
She cocked her head. "Yes, I did. Because I was frightened. I was afraid that if the Professor scanned my mind he would discover that I was really only Kwannon, and the person I wanted to be, Elizabeth, was just a ghost. I didn't want to face that possibility."
"I was wrong." She shrugged. "I probably would have saved myself a lot of grief if I'd simply let him show me the truth then, instead of discovering it for myself in Japan." She watched Remy, waiting to see if he was going to acknowledge her point. Remy closed his eyes and looked away.
After a moment, Psylocke continued. "To be honest, I think you were all fools to let Revanche and myself live in this house, not knowing who was who. I am sorry, but it is necessary."
Remy felt the flash of motion through his mutant power. He opened his eyes to the reflected image of Psylocke's hand sweeping down at him, psychic blade glowing. Trapped between the thick-paned glass and the warrior telepath, he had little room to maneuver. Still, he dove to the side, praying that his reflexes would be fast enough. But he had reacted just a little too slowly. Her blade pierced his skull, and her psychic presence dove into his mind with the precision of the knife it resembled.
"NOOOOOO!" Pain exploded in his head, excruciating in its intensity. He was unaware as his cry turned into a scream, and even less so as Elizabeth Braddock echoed him, her eyes wide with agony. All he was aware of was the relentless hurricane force that shredded mind and soul, sucking him down into a blackness so deep, so painful, that he knew he would never escape it. He had no control over the forces that spiraled outward from him. There was nothing except the pain. It was cold and loss, hate and hurt, and an emptiness that felt like it would extinguish his soul. He clawed desperately at the darkness, but was sucked down, down, down. For one small moment, he thought he heard a man's voice, a small piece of sanity in the whirlwind, but when he tried to grab on to it, it was gone, and the violent dark took him completely.
#
"Ungh." Jean couldn't help her groan as she dropped to her knees beside Psylocke. She pressed the heel of one hand against her forehead, as if she could somehow push her terrific headache back into a more manageable form. She did a cursory scan to confirm what she was already fairly sure of.
"I was able to shield her, for the most part. She should be fine, Charles." She looked up at Xavier, who was gingerly cradling his own head.
"What about Remy?" Rogue's gaze darted between them. She held his limp form in her arms, her eyes shining with unspilled tears.
The professor straightened slowly. "I don't know, Rogue. I think I was able to reach him in time, but I don't dare try to check. I would probably incite another seizure."
"Seizure?" She looked down at Remy's still form.
"For lack of a better term. A telepathic seizure."
Logan snorted. "The Cajun's a spook? That sure explains some things."
"Logan, please." Jean was tired, and the reference irritated her. "Remy is a telepath, and a powerful one. But that part of his mind is so badly damaged that even a gentle probe might have set this off. Elizabeth's attack, being so violent, just... snapped whatever restraints he had. That psi blast…." She shook her head. "I don't think I ever want to meet whatever could have hurt him so badly as to cause that. If I hadn't been there to reinforce Betsy's shields, she would most likely be dead."
Silence followed her words. After a few moments, Scott walked over to his wife and helped her to stand. They both looked down at Gambit.
"I guess he had a good reason, after all," Scott said quietly.
Outside, the rain continued to fall.
#
The man stands before the fireplace, contemplating the flames. He is dressed elegantly in black and navy. His gray hair is drawn back in a black band. It is only here, in the privacy of his personal suites, that he drops his madman pretense. Only here, that he is still Remy LeBeau.
He pours himself a brandy. The amber liquid glows in the firelight. Silently, he toasts the woman who looks down from her place above the mantle. The portrait is, without doubt, the gem of his collection. It would be worth millions if anyone knew it existed. He has never been very fond of X-art, as it is labeled. Having known the real things, he has little appreciation for the various artist's impressions-- and misimpressions. But the man who painted that portrait had somehow known who the real X-men were, despite the fact that he had not even been born until twenty years after their deaths. His work had become legendary.
The woman over the mantle sits in a bed of burgundy satin. Modestly, she covers herself with a swath of the rich cloth, its dark color setting off the paleness of her bare skin and the signature white streak in her red hair. She is flushed, as if her lover has recently been with her, and she looks down out of the painting with a secretive smile.
The man turns as the door opens behind him. Shackle stands in the doorway.
"Genesis is here. Should I send him in?" She glances at the painting without effect. It means nothing to her.
"Oui, chile."
Shackle steps aside, and a man enters. He is aging as well, though not nearly as fast as one might expect. He crosses the room with long strides and extends his hand.
"I came like you asked, Remy. It's been a long time." His smile is genuine.
"So it has, mon ami." Remy takes the proffered hand. "Brandy?"
Genesis nods and accepts the glass Remy hands him. "So what do you want? It's a risk for me to come here, you know."
"De endgame's on us, Forge. Thought y'd want t' be here." Remy sips his drink.
The mutant once known as Forge laughs. "So the impossible's really going to happen?"
Red eyes flash over the rim of the glass. "If de last few pieces fall into place."
